The Almost Death of Sherlock Holmes
by WhoLockedAndProud
Summary: John and Sherlock have a fight. Sherlock apologizes...


The (Almost) Death of Sherlock Holmes

(or, Watson's Bad Days)

(or, Sherlock's hidden talents)

***DO I OWN SHERLOCK? UH, NO. OBVIOUSLY. I OWN NOTHING. (SADLY)**

****IF I DID, THERE WOULD BE SO MUCH JOHNLOCK**

*****I CAN'T EVEN-**

_This fic is based on a scene in _a Scandal in Belgravia_, when John and Sherlock are tussling._

_ "I've killed people, Sherlock!"_

"_You're a doctor!"_

"_I have bad days!"_

The day started pleasantly enough. John woke to the scent of tea and coffee.

That should have been the first sign. Sherlock never prepared breakfast.

"Morning, Sherlock. Pancakes or toast?"

This was answered with a hum. John stabbed at the lump on the couch with a slipper covered toe. Sherlock mumbled, and turned around, wriggling deeper into his blankets. John kicked him again, and decided to leave the detective alone.

John shuffled to the kitchen, lusting after his morning cup of tea. A horrible sight greeted his bleary eyes. It took a moment for his sleepy mind to work out what he was seeing, and _it wasn't pretty_.

" SHEEEEERLOOOOOOOCK!"

John didn't really mind body parts in the fridge, as long as there was sufficient space for food, and the decomposing parts weren't touching anything edible. He got over it the first week, after finding eyeballs in the microwave, thumbs with the vegetables, and a liver amongst the fruit.

But this, this _monstrosity _horrified him.

It was a single, grayish pink brain, all wrinkly and slimy, and floating in a bucket of _tea_.

He didn't care about the brain.

He didn't really mind that Sherlock used his tea in his experiment.

But he needed his tea.

And there was _none left._

And it was his _favourite tea._

"Ah, I see you've discovered my experiment. I was curious about the rate of decomposition of the human brain when submerged in various liquids."

He pointed to a few other buckets scattered on the floor.

" Coffee. Orange juice. Energy drink. Milk."

John twitched, and counted to thirty seven.

He sighed and reached for his jar of strawberry jam.

John froze.

The jar was empty.

That was the last straw.

Sherlock never saw it coming. He noted the changes, of course _tensed shoulders, sudden stillness, held breath_, but wasn't aware of what was about to happen to him.

John turned, and _tackled _the willowy figure, their dressing gowns billowing as they toppled onto the floor.

"_That. Was. My. Last. Bit. Of. TEA!" _Each stop was punctuated by a none too- gentle punch to a part of Sherlock's body.

The two were rolling around and making a racket. Sherlock, as skilled as he was in some martial art, was no match for John's war hardened strength and fury. Sherlock's legs were flailing like the tentacles of an octopus, and his hands were pulling uselessly at John's arm, which was around his neck in a headlock.

They somehow scrabbled to a standing position, and were wrestling against the door.

"Boys? Is something the matter? Do I need to sort this out?"

Mrs. Hudson's voice was on the other side of the door.

"No-need-to worry- Mrs. Hudson!" Gasped Sherlock as John landed a painful blow on his thigh.

He threw himself against John, causing John to hit the door, making it rattle and drawing a grunt from the shorter man.

Mrs. Hudson gasped, flustered, and they could hear the scuttling down the stairs.

Watson's ears burned from embarrassment and he released Sherlock.

He coughed and strode away.

Sherlock was panting and flopped onto the couch. He picked up the violin and played, thoughtful.

John came back from a shopping expedition, carrying bags filled with milk, tea, coffee, and several jars of jam. He loved his jam. He ate, still slightly angry, and went to update his blog. John was preoccupied with typing for a few hours (really, the man should take typing classes, with the way he typed- so slowly, and with one finger at a time- it irritated Sherlock), so Sherlock sneaked into the kitchen.

A beautiful scent filled their flat. It was warm, and... chocolatey? John sniffed again, to make sure. Yes, it was chocolate. He wandered into the kitchen, curious. Maybe Mrs. Hudson was baking. He hoped he could beg a bit of whatever she was baking off her. To his immense surprise, it wasn't Mrs. Hudson working in the kitchen. It was Sherlock, his purple shirt, suit jacket, pants, and socks dusted with smears of flour, despite the hot pink apron slung about his waist. Flour was lying in drifts, small pockets of the powder tucked into his curly hair, smeared across his face, along with chocolate stains.

They stared at each other.

John's eyes swept over the messy, eggy, milky floor, and a wide grin cracked his face in half.

"Uh, John, this," a sweep of his arm towards the oven (or rather, what lay within) "is for you. I baked a chocolate cake, since your breakfast was ruined by my... experiment."

This was as close to an apology as he would get from Sherlock, so it was accepted with a laugh and no hard feelings.

Besides, who could resist such an adorable Sherlock?


End file.
